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Líf was not often asked to participate in celebrations. He understood and appreciated the reasoning behind such a decision: he was not an especially jolly figure, and it was not so long ago that he had tried to destroy Askr.
Still, sometimes he was invited to something or other. It so happened that there was to be a friendly competition between those given weapons both blessed and infernal, and he was counted amongst them.
The sword at his hip was barely familiar, and he hadn't worn his current outfit many times, either. At least, not out to battle.
Eir had told him, once, that she had met another version of himself called back to chthonian service. When he had been called back, he was dressed as Líf was now: leather, billowing cape, snarling mask. She had said the other Líf had not wanted to fight her, despite being ordered to. She had been able to set him free from bondage, at least for a while.
There were times when Líf wondered why he had not gone through this experience, why Ganglöt had not snared him to do her bidding. But, he had heard things here and there about his other selves, ones who had become generals of Hel but somewhere along the line walked a different path than he had. It was the way of the many Worlds.
He figured he should count himself lucky. Whatever had kept him in Askr - the Breidablik, Shine, the fickleness of gods - kept him from becoming a thrall of the underworld a second time. Through coincidence or providence, he seemed to have been allowed the exact same outfit and sword Ganglöt bestowed to her puppet, without the experience.
He felt almost silly riding up to the battlefield, knowing he would face off against people who were either deeply worthy of their blessing or deeply unworthy of their misfortune. He'd slipped through the cracks somehow, stumbling upon this very suit because he had wanted to surprise his partner one night.
Líf could feel said partner's gaze upon him as he entered the arena. Thrasir had barely spoken with him since the opening of the event, and he was not sure if it was because of her disdain regarding infernal weapons or some other obscure reason. Perhaps she remembered the night he played the part of a wolf and wished for another episode, keeping away until then.
Either way, she watched from afar, the distance making it difficult to read her expression. He strode into the arena, hoping to give a fair show until he could return to her.
It so happened that neither of them had to wait long until Líf could. He left the arena in a daze, keeping his mind quiet. The quiet was better than the alternatives, and there were many alternatives - frustration, disappointment, resignation - that he felt were entirely too bothersome to process. Time would smooth things out, and now that he was eliminated from the competition, he would have time, he thought.
Thrasir, however, did not give him the space to have that time, because she approached him soon after he left the arena, before he could even reach the barracks. She studied his face in deep, focused silence. He stood still to allow it, letting his breath in and out steadily.
"You do not like losing," she said.
"I should hope I've become more graceful about it," he said, smiling slightly even though she could not see it and he barely felt it.
"Still, this loss is on your mind," she said. "Would you like to spend some time playing pretend to get your mind off it? Nothing elaborate, if you're tired."
The last time he had worn this outfit around her, it was for...playing pretend, as she put it. They'd both enjoyed that scene very much.
"I am not upset," he said, tilting his head back to indicate the arena behind him. It was true, so long as he made sure it was. "But I am tired."
Thrasir's expression fell slightly in the quiet after his words. "Shall I wish you a good evening, then?"
The noise of the hall, of people going to and fro from dinner, was grating to his ears. He craved the quiet of his room.
"For now, yes," he said, hoping to pacify her.
"For now," she repeated, her voice soft with understanding.
He stepped forward, an arm outstretched. She stepped towards him, allowing him to rest a hand and his mask in her hair. She lingered in his space awhile.
"Thank you," he said.
She touched his elbow, and the two parted. "Good night, Alfonse," she said. "Tomorrow morning should be better."
"Yes."
Líf went into the barracks quietly. The coming evening was a gloomy grey that quickly darkened with squally rain. He watched the worsening weather from his window, glad enough that he hadn't needed to fight in such conditions.
The thought of the competition still made him frown, though, so he turned away from the window.
He had time now, and that time needed filling. He sat on the side of his bed and opened a nearby book. Eventually the room became too dark to read, and it took him a moment to realize why - his current outfit obscured his luminous eitr more than usual.
The bedside lamp cast a soft, golden glow when he flicked it on. On the dresser were dark, fluffy shapes - the ear and tail he had worn the first time he'd put on his outfit. He hadn't worn them for the competition, of course. If he were to change out into his nightclothes, he supposed he would tuck the ears and tail away alongside the leather and cape.
Perhaps if he changed out of the outfit, he could put the day out of his mind well and truly, and he'd be able to sleep. The more he looked at the dark fur, though, the more he thought of the glimpses of his partner he had seen over the past few days - distant, watching, waiting.
He fastened them in their proper places, looking at himself in the bedroom mirror. He didn't have the confidence and swagger he'd put on in the previous scene he'd worn them, but the ensemble still looked decently fierce.
He looked a proper warrior. The thought made his mind stormy, too busy to be settled with reading alone. He pushed the door to his room open and strode out into the hall.
Fortunately, there was light under Thrasir's door. Líf paused in front of it, wondering if it was asking too much to show up unannounced and expect a scene they hadn't done any negotiating about, especially after implying he wished to be alone.
His partner was quick on her feet, though. She had offered earlier. If nothing else, they could just spend some time together. He drew in a breath and knocked.
A slight hesitation, but then - "Yes?"
He opened the door, taking care not to be so rough that it would make noise. Thrasir was in a chair by a low fire, a project on her lap. Surprise crossed her features, but only for a moment - at once she fell to studying him, calculating. Líf trusted her to read him, and in the quiet, he could feel his thoughts slowly unraveling.
The competition. How he was dragged into it because of some other self of his. How he had prepared himself for it, and now it was over for him, how it was just a game in the end --
"It's a wretched night to be outside," she said, her expression taking on a gentle concern. She laid her project aside. "You're looking for shelter, aren't you? Come in."
He crossed the room slowly, not knowing what to say. Perhaps he could say nothing.
"What a magnificent hound you are," she said. "Are you cold? Come by the fire..."
A hound, not a wolf...it felt appropriate. Whatever wildness he had was not present in him today.
She sat in the only chair by the hearth, but there was a space nearby. He fitted himself in that space, dropping to a kneel. With the careful hands of someone appraising an unfamiliar animal, she reached out to him, guiding him to rest his cheek against her knee.
Rain murmured outside.
Slowly, as if testing if he would withdraw, she started to pet the hair between the two furry ears he wore. In this moment, she had established herself as someone unfamiliar with him, but willing to reach out and shelter him. That made him feel warmer inside than the fire so close to his back. He kept his hands in his lap as he let his gaze drift upwards, meeting her eyes.
"Poor, lonely hound. So mighty, and yet so tame," she murmured. "You must have had an owner, or a family that loved you. You loved that family too...and yet you were wandering the dark alone."
The tragic, familiar story plucked at his shrouded heart. That, and the turbulent state of his mind due to the day's events, made him turn his face into her hands. She petted him steadily, soothingly. For a moment, he was just a weary animal, able to close his eyes after finding someone he could trust.
"Something happened to your family, didn't it," she asked, a careful hush to her voice. "But you survived."
The weary hound let out a long sigh. He reached up with a hand, letting it come to rest on her knee. She allowed the touch without comment.
"I do not have much. I am not the family you lost," she said slowly, as the line between pretend and reality blurred. "But you are welcome to stay with me. I..."
Her hands stilled. She bent at the waist so she could lay her forehead on top of his hair, her fingers tangling in the strands.
"No matter what happened, or what you did, I did...you can stay with me. It's not what we lost, but I can love you...and you can love me."
His hands moved to clasp hers. She did not flip her wrists so they could hold each other palm-to-palm, but she pressed against his scalp.
He had failed once, on a scale so large that it doomed more lives than he could count. Today was another little failure. If he were not a revenant, perhaps he could bring himself to cry about these things.
But he was here now, and so was she, and she loved him in spite of it all.
"If you are alright with this tired creature as your guardian, then I will stay," he said.
She let out a light chuckle, uncurling. "I didn't know you could speak, little hound!"
"Ah, am I little?" he asked, a smile playing on his face. She smiled back, slotting into his arms as he moved to embrace her. The two of them listened to the fire popping for a while.
"Would you like anything else, my hound?" she asked.
He considered the offer. This was a short scene, but the journey was...quite a lot, despite that. "This was good," he said. "As I told you before...I am tired, mostly."
"I could help you wash up, perhaps? And you can change into something lighter."
He let out a foggy breath. "I would like that. Thank you, Veronica."
Thrasir reached up to remove the ears from his head, putting them on her bedside table. "You've had an intense couple of days. Now you must come back to the normal routines."
Líf sighed. "Yes, the routines."
She looked back at him, scrutinizing. She helped him remove the cape next, considering what her next words would be.
"We've had a bit of pretend," she said, "and I think it was good for both of us. But, would you like to talk about what's on your mind tonight? Or is it too tender for now?"
He laid his belt next to his cape. The rest would come off when they got to the baths. She helped him to stand, waiting for his response.
"Let's begin walking," he said. She nodded.
It was late enough that they didn't have to wait or look around for an empty bath they could share, and soon enough she was busying herself with a light shampooing of his hair.
"There are Lífs from other Worlds...other fallen Alfonses, who were pulled back to Hel by Ganglöt," he said.
"Ganglöt?" Thrasir frowned. "That mousey thing that skulked around the castle?"
"The very same. In other Worlds, she mustered up a claim to Hel's throne...and in so doing, chained the two of us back into service."
His partner's scowl grew deeper. She drew her hands back from his head, flexing her claws. "I thought in other Worlds, we are in service to other gods."
"Our first oaths were to the underworld," he said.
Thrasir let out a long grumble, resting her chin on a hand. "...We may need to prepare for such a thing, then," she muttered.
"We may," he said, reaching for her other hand. She let him grasp it, too deep in thought to react much.
"Eir - the one in this Order of Heroes - told me she met one such Líf. She made sure he was not I. She told me he wore the same outfit I wore today."
That stirred Thrasir from her thoughts. "You mean it is not merely some thing you dreamed up to be a wolf one night?"
"In other Worlds, it isn't. It was something given to Líf when forced back into Hel, alongside the cruel weapon I used in the competition."
"...But how did you get the weapon?"
Líf steeled himself. "...Eir and Shine gave it to me."
Thrasir did not respond for a moment, her face blank. Then, a flicker of lightning, green like the stormiest magic, coursed through her eitr. Her eyes clouded as the lightning flashed inside of her.
"Veronica..." he began, rubbing the back of the hand he held. He sighed. "Yes, it upset me as well. But it got me thinking. The Lífs that Ganglöt ensnared...they became generals again."
"Against their will," Thrasir said through a tense jaw.
"As a general, they once again were pressed to fight. And fight they did," Líf said. "They fought with the intent to kill - Ganglöt gave orders to kill Eir. And I..." he grimaced. Thrasir's stormy expression did not lighten as she glared at him. "I envy that, in some fashion."
"You envy..." Thrasir began, trailing off. The hand in his hold relaxed, even beginning to grasp back. "...being able to sate the hunger within. To have that permission - to be told - to kill."
He nodded, a long sigh escaping him. Blue fog seeped out of the fangs lining his cheeks.
As former generals of Hel, they were both still touched by the fell energies from that plane. That energy had an appetite that had not been truly sated since they had come to the Order of Heroes. So long as they were bound under a Hero's contract, they could not kill their fellows, and the Order strove not to deal with its enemies lethally.
"I was given a fell sword, as if I was a general with a mission to kill again, even if it was just...a game. A friendly competition between Worlds," he said. Water dripped from his bangs mutely. "I thought, perhaps...if I could not kill, perhaps I can pretend to be the ruthless thing I would need to be in order to do so. The ruthless thing I once was. And it was not enough."
"It was a very close match, I hear," Thrasir said. She pulled closer to him, the flashing in her eitr settling as she calmed herself.
"It is the Fell Exalt that will proceed tomorrow, not I," Líf said. "Tomorrow, I return to the routines of the Order like a leashed hound."
She frowned, reaching up to his bangs to test the feel of them. Satisfied with their cleanliness, she moved to rinse his hair.
"To secure the means to kill freely would mean chaining yourself to a crueler leash than the one we wear here," she said.
"You think I didn't know that? That I didn't rankle at the fact that I coveted such misery, even if it meant tearing the both of us from this life?" His fangs clenched in the beginning of a snarl.
"I didn't mean --" she caught herself before she could match his tone. She made sure to finish rinsing him in silence. "I know you know that. And I know you know I would understand," she said when she was done, reaching for a sponge.
"I do," he said, glad she still wanted to keep caring for him. He worked on scrubbing his chest while she worked on his back. "Forgive me, Veronica. I didn't mean to be angry at you."
"This whole competition has upset you more than you were ready for, and you lost on top of it. Even a good hound can snap if they've had a bad day."
He hummed.
Soon he was clean enough to leave the bath, and she passed her hands through his hair to set it to their mutual liking. The crackle of her magic tickled at his scalp, but it was nothing like the energy he'd seen arcing through her body earlier. She then moved to hug him, making sure to tuck herself in his arms in her usual way. The familiar contact brought a smile to his face, and he returned the hug. He hadn't had such contact in a few days, and he made sure to wrap around her to make the most of it.
"What do you feel like now?" she asked.
"Ready to rest."
She made sure their bathrobes were tied for their modesty before asking her next question. "Where would you like to rest?"
"With you."
Thrasir smiled, and they walked to her room together. She had taken enough of his nightshirts over the years that there was something for him to wear there. He had a seat at the edge of the bed and stared at the cape and ears.
"What is it, Alfonse?"
"I was thinking," Líf said. "About the hound who came to rest by the fire tonight."
She wore one of his nightshirts as well, and it draped around her frame since she hadn't bothered to button it down. "What about the hound?" she asked, lying against his shoulder. She didn't seem to think that this line of thought was silly, or chide him for overthinking a scene. Her openness made him feel warm.
"When I first wore this outfit, I was a wolf, and a witch came to his den. Today, the hound came to the fire of a lonely woman. The two stories...they are opposites, in a way. I was thinking of how opposite the hound and the wolf are, and I wondered about the woman by the fire."
"You think the woman by the fire and the witch are opposites, too?" she asked. "Must they be? Perhaps the wolf and the hound are one and the same, and the woman by the fire is the very same witch. Perhaps the witch and the wolf meet each other from time to time, and they pretend it is the first time every time, because every time it is a little different, and it suits them to pretend."
He considered that awhile, and to his pleasant surprise, it kept his mind busy enough that he barely thought of the day's events, especially after she tucked him into bed next to her.